


Fundy and His Beautiful, Terrible Fiance.

by Bloody_Crown



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Floris | Fundy Angst, I describe food for a while, M/M, Marriage, ow everything hurts im so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28211634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloody_Crown/pseuds/Bloody_Crown
Summary: “Fundy-” Dream took a tentative step towards him, George lingering confusedly in the background. “Fundy? Isn’t that Wilbur Soot’s son? Dream what’s he doing here?” George’s hand slipped towards his scabbard, almost unsheathing his knife until Dream stopped him. “No this is Fundy- he’s-”Fundy cut him off with a scoff, tears flowing down his cheeks. “No. He’s right. That’s all I am. I’m Wilbur Soot’s son. And I’m leaving.” Shakily removing his matching ring, he threw the small object in Dream’s face, making the boy flinch as it ricocheted off of him and the clank of its impact on the ground echoed through the house. “I made you a pie,” Fundy muttered, startling George. “I hope you enjoy it, you dickwad.”
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Floris | Fundy, Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 70





	Fundy and His Beautiful, Terrible Fiance.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi yes this is set before the election of Schlatt. Pain.

**Fundy** was careful not to prick his fingers as he gently picked roses off the bush. Putting them into his basket and turning around, he placed his basket down next to several others, filled with a few different fruits and veggies from his luscious garden. He wipes his brow, his paws are dirty, though, and he finds himself worthlessly swiping at a glob of fertilizer. He shrugs.

Swiftly hefting his baskets of blackberries and carrots onto his shoulders, Fundy walked across the dirt path and into his kitchen. Well, his fiance’s kitchen. Dream had insisted they lived apart, for reasons obvious. Their marriage was an open secret, so they had to at least try to seem platonic. Fundy’s father, Wilbur, was also the leader of the revolution, so there’s also that.

While his garden technically wasn’t _his_ , Dream had given him permission to turn around the dry plot of land at the back of his house. He had transformed it during his many and lengthy trips to Dream’s house, and thus it had become his. In the panic of wedding planning, they hadn’t sat down to have a good meal in quite some time, so here Fundy was, baking and cooking and whipping up a meal so good he had no doubt all their worries would be washed away. 

He had 5 baskets, one of roses, blackberries, carrots, strawberries, and cucumbers, each to create their own dish, besides the roses and strawberries. The roses were for aesthetic reasons and rose water to be fancy. The main course? A freshly baked strawberry pie, the crust bent into a smiley pattern. His dress swirled around him, a gift from Eret. He tried not to let bitterness affect how he thought of it, as it was very pretty. A pretty dark green color with an old fashioned white apron tied onto the front. Cute and simple was just Fundy’s style.

He smiled in anticipation as he cut the cucumbers for a cucumber salad side dish, the slices sliding off cleanly and neatly into a bowl. As he prepared his vinegar to soak them, his hands glided over something curiously placed. A set of keys was laying on Dream’s counter, and Fundy picked them up to put them on his key wrack when he saw a slip of paper under. He tried to keep his nose to himself, he really did, but after a while, it was too much for his curious nature. So he read it.

“Meetup at Oak Tavern. 3 -DT” Relief flooded Fundy’s system. He’d been stressing over nothing. The paper was just an invite. It didn’t explain why he placed his keys over it, as he had a key hanger by the door, but he let it slip his mind. It was 4 at the moment, so Fundy had a little until Dream would return. He’d asked earlier, and Dream said he would be getting back at around 6, though not without some questions as to why he needed the information.

Fundy set the cucumbers basking in vinegar to the side, hurrying himself to steam some seaweed that would go into his famous cucumber salad. It wasn’t actually famous, but as far as popularity went, both L’Manburgians and Dream went crazy for it. As he put the seaweed to steam, he carefully cut the carrots into pristine slices for both a side of carrots and to add to his salad. He checked the time. 4:35. He was perfectly on schedule.

He set to the pie, slicing and dicing the strawberries first, even dipping into his supply of blackberries for a surprise taste. When all was said and done and the pie just needed to be put in the oven, Fundy made quick work of finishing up his salad, swiftly taking roses and placing them in a small, clear vase, placed in the middle of Dream’s backyard table. The vase clinked softly, and Fundy enjoyed the flickering end of the sunset. Dream and he liked to watch the sun rise, so they’d stay up all day and all morning, and so watching the sunset only filled him with contented happiness.

The pie was baked and his salad was done. He’d left the pie in the oven to keep it warm. It was 5:34 when Fundy heard the trotting of horses. He gingerly looked out the window, careful not to be seen by who was outside. He only heard one set of footsteps enter, soft goodbyes exchanged. He took this as a sign and lit the soft lilac scented candles that sat on either side of the vase, pulling out both chairs and setting the food down on the outside table. The pie was still fresh. 

The footsteps sounded hurried, and he heard a large THUMP against the interior of the house. His feet made soft noises against the hardwood floors, and Fundy quickly made his way towards the front entrance to see two figures intertwined.

It was George and Dream. George held Dream up by holding his thighs under where Dream had wrapped them around him, pushing him into the wall into an intense kiss that didn’t break, still, while Fundy stood in shock. He hadn’t heard two sets of footsteps because it was George who was walking, not Dream. He only ever heard _one_ horse trot away.

Tears immediately sprung to his eyes as his hands lifted to cover a sob coming from him, the muffled noise alerting Dream, who tapped George’s shoulder and pulled away. “Fundy?” His knees weakened, and the next thing he knew he was desperately trying not to let his claws show. He couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t look at his fiance- no his ex-fiance. He just couldn’t. “Fundy-” Dream took a tentative step towards him, George lingering confusedly in the background. “Fundy? Isn’t that Wilbur Soot’s son? Dream what’s he doing here?” George’s hand slipped towards his scabbard, almost unsheathing his knife until Dream stopped him. “No this is Fundy- he’s-”

Fundy cut him off with a scoff, tears flowing down his cheeks. “No. He’s right. That’s all I am. I’m Wilbur Soot’s son. And I’m leaving.” Shakily removing his matching ring, he threw the small object in Dream’s face, making the boy flinch as it ricocheted off of him and the clank of its impact on the ground echoed through the house. “I made you a pie,” Fundy muttered, startling George. “I hope you enjoy it, you dickwad.” 

His dress twirled as he turned on his heels, and with his tail between his legs, Fundy vanished. He jumped the fence of his once loved garden, the memories tainted by the knowledge it was all fake. Nothing of it was real. He didn’t bother thinking, running recklessly into the forest, the thick of it endlessly scratching, scratching, scratching his arms and legs. 

The pads of his feet hurt. His arms hurt from the constant dragging of branches. His legs hurt from the spikey grass.

It didn’t matter.

It was all a facade. Dream, with his blond-brown hair, Dream, his freckles that scattered like the stars in the night sky, Dream, with a button-nose that scrunches up whenever he smells sick, Dream was nothing but a faker. Dream never loved him. Was he that stupid? Why would Dream ever date someone on the opposite side for anything other than leverage? Why else would he propose except to marry into L’Manburg’s lineage? To get to Wilbur? Everything was always about him.

His whole life, Fundy dragged his feet in his father’s shadow.  Wilbur’s  little champion.  Wilbur’s  kid. Not a veteran of the Civil War. Not a fighter for freedom alongside his companions from the (admitted)tyranny of the Dream SMP. Not Coconut2020 _Presidential Candidate_. He was always Wilbur’s son first and foremost, and he was fucking done with it.

He’d finally collapsed when he reached a running source of water he recognized. It led out to sea, the mouth of the river spitting out near L’Manburg’s docks. His legs trembled and he shook like a leaf. His hands clenched in and out of fists, claws leaving scrapes and cuts. His dress… tattered. He’d have to get it tailored somewhere. The redwood trees coddled him, concealing him from all prying eyes and allowing him a moment of peace in a fleeting moment. He couldn’t stand. He couldn’t stand the world. What was it about him that made everything crumble? That made every accomplishment get looked over? Was it him? Was he why Dream wasn’t faithful?

Gazing pitifully into the water, he looked at himself. His ears were turned sadly down, hair ruffled and sticking up in every which way. He was still crying, tears drip-dropping into the water. Shameful.

He searched his face. Every imperfection, every quirk of his lips, every wince from wind meeting wound. He found everything wrong. He listed them off one by one. He cried. Fundy spent the whole day there. His own fiance couldn’t stand him. His father infantized him in his shadow. His accomplishments were short-lived. Life wanted him down, and he was. He supposed he was weak. Worse things happened to him. He’d fought a war besides a traitor, seen countless terrible sights of wounded comrades and bloodied battle fields.

He sat on the docks the next day. His tongue swiped his dry and cracked lips, eyeing the mud and dirt and saltwater caked under his claws. His legs shook as they hung, and his eyes were glazed with a depressing amount of acceptance of what had happened. He was imperfect in every way and he knew that. He was imperfect in every way and he was fine with it. He was imperfect in every way and that’s why Dream cheated. He was imperfect in every way and that’s why nothing went right for him. He was imperfect in every way and that's why the world kept him down.

“Fundy! Where’ve you been?” “Out with some friends, dad.” “Well c’mon then! We’ve got work to do.” And so, legs shaking under his weight, feet and ankles painted with mud, arms peppered with scratches from branches, Fundy stood. He stood and he withstood the test of time. The test of grief. The test of loss. The test of life.


End file.
